


Watching You Watching Me

by Hamamelis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Pining Sherlock, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, the tables get turned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-02-13 20:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12991803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamamelis/pseuds/Hamamelis
Summary: After encountering John in an intimate position, Sherlock struggles to regain control over his sexual and emotional desires. And he really, really wants to see John jerking off. Inappropriate spying, emotional revelations, and a lot of masturbation ensues.





	1. Even He Knew it was Wrong

Even _he_ knew it was wrong.

The first time it had been accidental, almost. He had suspected John was… pleasuring himself (based on the time of day, and the slight, repeated squeak of a mattress spring), considered the fact to be unimportant and irrelevant to the task at hand, which had just happened to require the tissue samples which he had stowed in John’s room several weeks prior. Sherlock understood that even John, who was startlingly, deliciously, accepting of Sherlock’s intrusions into his space would consider it unacceptable to be witnessed in that most private of activities. So he would simply sneak up the steps to John’s room, and evaluate whether John was sufficiently distracted for Sherlock to retrieve the samples; if not, Sherlock would wait in the stairwell for John to finish, at which point he could enter without reproach. If he felt a slight twisting in his stomach or a warmth in his groin at the thought of John’s current activities, well, it was only an involuntary physical reaction, the like of which he was well accustomed to suppressing. And if he found himself increasingly needing to suppress such reactions since John had moved in to 221B, well… well, he really preferred not to consider that.

The plan had proceeded without difficulty, at first. Of course Sherlock knew that the second, fourth, and seventh steps creaked, and he avoided those as a matter of course. As he climbed the stairs, Sherlock found that he had (unsurprisingly) been correct in his assessment of John’s current activities. The slight metallic creak of the mattress spring declared itself with greater fervor the closer he crept, and he could just make out the soft huff of John’s breathing, more rapid than normal, a bit ragged, perhaps, as if he had been running with Sherlock in pursuit of a criminal. Sherlock found his own breathing was heavier than it ought to be as well, considering his minimal level of exertion. His skin had felt hot, too, and sensitive; clothes felt too tight, and that little, rational voice in the back of his mind that he seldom heard, and even more seldom obeyed, was suggesting that maybe, just maybe, this was not a wise idea and he should go back downstairs and wait, and pretend he wasn’t becoming aroused at the sound of his (straight) flat-mate pulling on his cock on a Saturday afternoon… And then John had moaned, just a little, a rough, masculine, _needy_ sound, and _oh god_ Sherlock was aroused, there was no denying it, he could feel his cock hardening uncomfortably against the tight fabric of his trousers, and his hands were trembling, and his stomach clenched in a desperate coil of _want._ He gasped softly, involuntarily, and froze, but there was no interruption in the rhythmic sounds from John’s room. He pressed his palm against the bulge in his pants, willing it to subside, but the pressure of his hand felt good, too good, and it wasn’t helping, so he yanked it away.

 _The tissue samples,_ he had reminded himself sternly. _Just get them and leave, and forget this ever happened._ Thus admonished, he crept up the remaining stairs, drawn to John like iron filings to a magnet, desperate to see, to know, _god, what does his face look like when he takes himself in hand like that? Are his eyes closed? And his lips, mouth open perhaps, tongue darting out to moisten his lips…_ Sherlock shook his head to clear it, reminding himself that, no, that was not why he was here, and was just to get the damned samples, for the… for the thing, ugh, never mind it all.

As he reached the door, Sherlock could hear John’s breathing grow still rougher, more rapid, then a moan, a murmured indecipherable word and a stuttering breath. And silence, then the protesting squeak of bedsprings as John’s weight collapsed back down upon them. Sherlock, his hand halfway to the handle of John’s door, suddenly considered himself. John was no longer distracted, although he might soon fall asleep; however, if not, Sherlock could hardly enter John’s room immediately after John… did that, with his own skin flushed, his pupils no doubt dilated extravagantly, and most damningly an aching erection. In a flood of shame, arousal, and frustration Sherlock crept back down the stairs, and once down rushed into his room, slamming the door behind him.  

Sherlock had long ago decided that sex was messy and distracting, and emotional attachment was worse, and had developed a rather effective approach toward suppressing his body’s urges. He did masturbate occasionally, when ignoring his body’s demands became more distracting than the act of release itself. But it was generally a fairly clinical affair, dictated by physical sensation rather than imagined acts of sexual desire. That day, though, was different. As he leaned against the closed door of his room, panting slightly, he gave up any pretense that this erection was going to go away on its own. Unfastening his trousers, breath catching, he couldn’t get his hand on himself fast enough.

“Oh god.” The words escaped his lips involuntarily, he bit down on his knuckle to quiet his treacherous mouth. He squeezed his cock with the slight slickness there his only lubrication. It wasn’t enough, but he couldn’t stop. Images flooded his mind; John, eyes closed in pleasure, fucking his fist, _yes, oh god;_ his cock in his hand just as Sherlock was stroking himself now. Sherlock imagined touching John just as he was touching himself now, squeezing that thick shaft, feeling him twitch and gasp under his touch, what would he feel like, what would he _taste_ like- And with a strangled moan Sherlock spent himself, his spunk spattering on the floor in front of him.

After a stunned moment, Sherlock slid down his door to the floor with a thud, and tried to calm his panting respirations. My god, what had gotten into him? His face flushed as he thought back on what had just occurred. How could he have lost control like that? And thinking of his flatmate… well, really, his friend (it still didn’t quite feel right), his…John, just… ugh! Damn. This was not good. Even now, spent as he was, he could still feel a curling warmth of arousal up through his core when he thought of John. No, this would not do. He would stop this in its tracks. No one had greater self-control than he, it was all just transport anyway, a tool for him to hone and utilize as his mind saw fit. He would master his body’s desires, just as he had so many times before. _Yes, do get on with it,_ his brother’s snide voice said in his mind. _But you might want to wipe your ejaculate off the floor, first._ With a frustrated huff, Sherlock righted his clothes and swirled out his door to grab a rag from the washroom, only to find himself nearly crashing into a smiling (or smirking, was he actually _smirking?_ ) John Watson.

That was the first time. And since then, it had only gotten worse. 

 

 

 


	2. A Moment of Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock ponders his Lapse in Judgment and comes to a dubious conclusion.

In the days following what Sherlock had come to think of as his Lapse (both in judgment and in self-control), he had observed John’s behavior closely, looking for signs that John had noticed anything amiss. To his great consternation, Sherlock could not be sure. In his favor, of course, was the fact that John’s deductive and observational powers were only minimally greater than those of the general population; that is to say, abysmal. But he had been _right there,_ when Sherlock had left his room that day. And as much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock had no idea when John had come downstairs, or how much noise he himself had made as he brought himself so frantically to climax. He had tried to revisit the experience in his memory to see if he could retrieve the sound of creaking footsteps, or determine the volume of his own humiliating vocalizations, but such attempts only left him feeling frustrated and aroused and he quickly abandoned them. No good was to be had from adding fuel to _that_ fire.

And a genuine conflagration it was. Sherlock couldn’t recall his mind ever being so treacherous, at least not since his highly confusing and distressing teen years. He tried to put off sleep, even though he didn’t have a case, working on his experiments until late in the night, for as soon as he lay in bed his mind turned to John, the sounds he had made, his strong calloused hands, his blue eyes. Would they have been open, watching his own cock slide through his fist; or closed, golden lashes fluttering shut against the delicate skin below his eyes; and his lips, would they have been pressed tightly together as when he is concentrating, or would they have parted, moistened occasionally with his tongue as they became dry from his panting breaths… And Sherlock would twist in the sheets, feel himself filling, stiffening, _oh god._ And the ache of desire, and the need for release-

Sherlock sucked in a breath, and shook his head to clear it. Even thinking about his problem became a problem. He stared at the bathroom door where John was taking his morning shower, apparently oblivious to Sherlock’s distress. _Does he know,_ Sherlock wondered. _Does he know what’s happening to me? I don’t even know what’s happening to me,_ he thought miserably. Of course he had observed John many times, deduced his history and background, knew his habits, was familiar with his patterns of speech, and his physical form, although to an irritatingly incomplete degree- he had never even seen John without his shirt, for example, much less the rest of his clothing. John was in the habit, probably from his military days, of bringing his change of clothes with him into the bathroom when he showered, never emerging from the steamy warmth of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his lean hips, tiny rivulets of water winding down the musculature of his chest, his calves...

_No!_ Sherlock told himself firmly. That line of thought was unhelpful, and deeply frustrating, not only for its powerfully erotic imagery, but also for its imprecision. He had never _seen_ John’s chest, how could he know if the hair there was thick, or sparse, if it was the same shade of gold as the hair on his head, if it became darker and coarser as it grew closer to his groin…

Sherlock huffed in frustration and began to pace across the kitchen. This was a convergence of two of his least favorite experiences- lack of self-control and lack of information. And it was almost as if the lack of information fed the lack of self-control… _wait a minute!_

_That was it!_ Sherlock laughed out loud with relief. How had he been such an idiot? It was obvious. The reason why he had become so fixated on John’s physical form and sexuality was simply that his mind had not been permitted to gather sufficient data. As with any problem, his profound and restless intellect could not let go until the unknowns were known, the uncertainties certain. By trying to prevent himself from considering the topic at hand (he cringed slightly at the unintended and rather coarse pun, then rallied), by preventing himself from considering the topic currently preoccupying him, he had actually caused himself greater distress. The solution, of course, was simple. He needed to collect more data. It was not enough to simply hear John pleasure himself, he needed to _see_ it. Then his mind would be satisfied, he could catalog the whole experience and move on, and all would be back to normal in 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock sighed in relief, bringing his attention back to the present moment. Golden sunlight slanted in through the east window, illuminating flecks of dust, tiny particles of himself, and of John, and of the life they shared, mingling in the air. He could faintly smell the breakfast John must have had earlier, toast with jam, and the faintly earthy, comforting odor of tea. The hiss of the shower mingled with the sounds of traffic floating up from the street below.

Come to think of it, John had been in the shower this morning for an awfully long time.

The adrenaline of a new case coursed through his veins, his heart beat and respirations accelerated, his face flushed. Sherlock took a shaky breath and crept toward the bathroom door.


	3. A Bit Not Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds out exactly why John is having such a long shower, and things get (ahem) a bit out of hand...

It seemed to take him far longer than usual to cross the kitchen. Time became oddly slow. His pulse pounded in his ears. As he approached the door, the hiss and spatter of the shower’s water grew in volume. Sherlock strained to hear if it overlayed any other, more intimate, noises. He could not be sure. Perhaps John was merely enjoying a long relaxing soak, letting the hot water run over his aching muscles. Perhaps his old wound bothered him and the water soothed it. Sherlock hesitated. What if he was mistaken? But no, surely that was a slight rhythmic, little wet splashing sound. _Oh._ Unbidden images filled his mind. John stroking himself into the stream of water, cock sopping wet, little squirts of water shooting from his fist as he pumped himself. _Oh, yes._

Sherlock felt dizzy with sensation. He rested his forehead against the cool paint of the bathroom door, and reached down to adjust his stiffening cock in his trousers. The touch of his own hand through the fabric was intensely pleasurable, sending echoing shivers of want coursing through his stomach, down his thighs, deep within. He had only meant to alleviate the discomfort brought by the position of his swelling member, but his hand lingered there, squeezing, rubbing just a little, in time to the wet, urgent sound he could just barely perceive over the rushing water. Oh, but it wasn’t enough. One hand still pressed against his cock, he reached for the doorknob.

It was unlocked, of course. The washroom’s only lock was a simple little cabin hook at the top of the door. It was so easy to open, simply by sliding a finger through the gap between the door and the frame and nudging the hook out of its little latch. He eased the door open, ever so slightly, just an inch, then another, then a third. Warm air, thick with moisture, spilled out through the opening. He could hear more clearly now, although his own respirations seemed far louder than they ought to. There was the sound of the shower, yes, but beneath it, undeniably, was something else; a wet, pulsing, stroking sound, a rapid, ragged breath, _ah…_

Sherlock felt as if his cock would burst through the fastenings of his trousers. He could hear John’s breathing, now, he was sure of it, ragged and heavy. And what could only be the wet, obscene, sliding of his cock through his hand. Sherlock moaned softly. He slid his hand beneath his waistband and unfastened the button. The head of his cock pushed up insolently through the soft band at the top of his briefs. He dragged his thumb across, smearing the slickness with a choked gasp. He knew he had to stop, this wasn’t why he was here. But, _god_ , John’s breathing was growing faster and more urgent, and the wet jerking noise of his hand on his cock was wiping every other thought from Sherlock’s mind. His own cock was positively _aching_ to be touched, and he just didn’t care about anything else.

He yanked his briefs lower, they squeezed against his bollocks in a way that was almost uncomfortable but instead only heightened the intensity of all the sensation that surrounded him. He sighed softly in relief as he allowed his hand to stroke and squeeze, _oh god_ , it felt so good, but too much friction, he needed slickness, he needed something. Glancing frantically about he saw a bottle of olive oil on the kitchen counter. As fast as he could he tiptoed into the kitchen, grabbed the bottle, and returned to the bathroom door. He poured a little oil into his hand and _oh, yes, oh god yes,_ that was it. He almost whimpered with relief as his hand slid slickly down the length of his cock, pulling from the head to the root, in time with John’s ragged breath, and the wet jerking sound of John’s hand working his cock. Oh god, John was moaning now, grunting a little with each stroke; Sherlock panted as he jerked himself roughly, feeling the heat pooling in his bollocks, and then exploding through him as he ejaculated hot spatters of semen onto the bathroom door.

***

Breathe in, breathe out. Oh god, what had he done?

Breathe in, breathe out. The shower was still running.

Breathe in, breathe out. He no longer heard the sounds of John’s masturbation.

Breathe in, breath out. Oh fuck.

Hands trembling, Sherlock gently pulled the door closed again, then wiped the evidence of what he could only consider to be some kind of temporary insanity from the door with his sleeve, grabbed the bottle of olive oil, and fled.


	4. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock freaks out a bit, and makes a plan.

Well that didn’t go as planned.

In fact, it was a rather long stretch to imply that planning had anything to do with what happened. Sherlock could feel himself hyperventilating, but couldn’t seem to convince himself to stop. In fact, one part of him seem to be still the detached observer of his own distress, while the rest of him panicked. What had he been _thinking?_ Clearly, he hadn’t been thinking at all. At least not with his mind, at any rate. He forced himself to inhale slowly and deeply. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been in this position, standing in his bedroom midway between wardrobe and bed, seemingly paralyzed by anxiety and humiliation, with his semen-stained sleeve and the misappropriated olive oil bottle still clutched in one hand. With a huffed exhalation, he set the bottle down on the floor and roughly tugged open the buttons of his shirt, glaring at the offending wine colored cotton before tossing it onto the floor and kicking it under the bed.

As the initial horror at what he had done began to fade, Sherlock took stock of the situation. Very well, so his experiment had yielded little in terms of new data. His knowledge of John’s appearance was still lamentably restricted to those areas of the body which were not generally covered with clothing. He had never even seen John’s _feet_ , for goodness sake! He frowned, somewhat startled by this realization, and by the fact that he had only now noticed this omission. Honestly, who actually brought socks into the washroom to put on after showering? It was absurd, really, almost as though John was intentionally depriving him of essential information.

He’d never even seen John’s shoulders, except through the soft cotton of the t-shirts he often wore in the mornings when he didn’t have somewhere to go.  Sherlock secretly loved those mornings, even though he would tell himself he was bored, tell himself he was longing for a case. John would sit in his chair, reading the paper, propping his (sock-shielded) feet up on the coffee table, sipping his mug of tea, reading bits of news to Sherlock, who would then interpret what was actually going on, beneath the bland words of the reporters. John would be skeptical, or amazed, or amused, occasionally irritated, and he would look at Sherlock with warmth and affection. Sherlock had experienced many things in his life, but never before could he recall feeling… cozy? Accepted? Cared for? Even… _loved_?

Reality ripped through his reverie like a knife through silk. Stupid. Stupid! It wasn’t enough that he had apparently lost control of his libido completely, now he had to wallow in sentiment too? This wasn’t about any of that, he reminded himself. The objective was data collection. And the objective of data collection was to free himself of these intrusive thoughts, this yearning, this desire. And besides, he told himself harshly, after the little show you put on just now it might all be a moot point anyway. John may be only minimally more observant than average, but he’s not a complete idiot. Sherlock had to acknowledge that it was possible that John knew exactly what he was doing outside the bathroom, and while John had proven to be remarkably tolerant of Sherlock’s various quirks on multiple occasions, surely this would be more than a bit not good. And then what? Surely he wouldn’t _leave_ , would he? _Would_ he?

Sherlock felt nauseous, his stomach clenched and his chest tight. Clearly this frequency of sexual release was deleterious to his health. And besides, John probably wouldn’t leave, and he probably hadn’t noticed, and even if he did leave, it would be fine. He would be fine. Fine. The word echoed through his mind, feeling more desiccated and hollow with each repetition.

This madness had to stop. It was becoming more urgent than ever that Sherlock complete his… investigations. Sherlock frowned. He was underestimating his own capabilities. He was a master of subterfuge. He had traced, tracked and outmaneuvered some of the greatest criminal minds of this generation. He could maintain a laser focus while simultaneously running through multiple alternate scenarios. How hard could it be to engineer an opportunity to watch John masturbate?

Perhaps he needed a different approach. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. He would do what he always did: gather data, formulate a plan, and execute it. And as for John (and he _wasn’t_ blushing, absolutely not, and he certainly didn’t feel a twinge of guilt at what John might make of all this); and as for John, well, truly what could John really know? He may have some suspicions, but it wasn’t as though Sherlock had been truly caught in the act. John hadn’t _seen_ anything, for instance. He couldn’t have. Sherlock was simply doing what he always did, overestimating the deductive capabilities of the average person. He knew, of course, that much of what seemed obvious to him was an utter mystery to most. Yes, of course! Sherlock almost laughed out loud at his earlier fears. John (mmmm, John, sighed a little part of his mind) was completely, utterly, and without doubt, oblivious. As usual.

He had the situation entirely under control. This very afternoon, he would-

Sherlock’s reverie was interrupted abruptly by a knock on his bedroom door.

“Sherlock?” he heard John’s voice from the other side. “Sherlock, you in there?” Sherlock shook himself, and attempted to ignore the instant elevation of his pulse at John’s voice.

“Yes, John. What do want?” He was pleased to hear that his voice sounded steady, almost bored.

“Have you seen the olive oil, by any chance? I need it for the pasta.”

 Sherlock flung open the door. John stood there, face as guileless as ever.

 His feet were bare.


	5. Unmoored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, unmoored by the sight of John's bare feet.

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, watching John cook. He wished he could pretend he had any other reason to be sitting there, but he couldn’t think of a single excuse.  John moved about the kitchen with an unexpected grace and cheeriness, sometimes humming a little tune to himself, or muttering at the pages of the recipe book he had propped against the dish drain. He was ignoring Sherlock for the most part, but in a companionable way, glancing at him occasionally, giving a little smile, nothing that would suggest he felt uncomfortable with Sherlock’s presence. John was wearing a light blue plaid shirt with no tie, the top button undone, exposing the notch at the base of his throat but no more, and a dark blue v-neck jumper over top. There was a tiny hole in the sweater’s left elbow through which Sherlock could see the lighter fabric beneath when John bent his arm. He wore dark blue denim jeans, soft with wear, a little loose but cinched tight around his narrow hips with a leather belt.  His feet were bare, and very clean.

Sherlock couldn’t stop staring at John’s feet, so exposed, on the cold grey tile of the kitchen floor. Sherlock thought of chemicals spilled, bloodstains, broken glass. John stood on his toes to reach for a jar of tomatoes on an upper shelf. Sherlock could see the soles of his feet, the arches. A part of John he had never seen before. Just… flaunted, as if it were nothing. He noticed his pulse quicken a little, and he felt a bit dizzy.

“Aren’t you cold?” Sherlock startled himself by speaking. John stared at him quizzically.

“No, it’s warm enough, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“Never mind.” Sherlock stared down at his hands, where they rested on the table. Those same hands that had been jerking himself earlier. He flushed. There was nowhere safe to look right now. He glanced back up at John and froze.

John was holding the bottle of olive oil in his hand, tilting it slowly over the pot of pasta. Sherlock watched transfixed, as a thin stream of pale amber oil flowed from the green glass. John lifted the bottle and, as a single drop of oil slid down the glass neck, slid his index finger up the glass and caught the drop. Sherlock barely dared to breathe as John lifted his finger to his lips and licked it off, with a flick of his moist pink tongue. Sherlock couldn’t help himself from a sharp intake of breath. He closed his eyes against the ache of longing and sensation that filled him. What would that soft, wet, tongue feel like against the violin-calloused tip of his own index finger? What would those soft, thin lips feel like against his own? Oh god, the depths of his lack of information were vastly more far-reaching than he had previously thought.

“You okay, there?” John’s warm voice seemed to reach inside Sherlock’s chest and squeeze something deep within. He kept his eyes closed.

“I’m fine. I just have a headache,” he lied.

“Here, let me get you a Brufen, alright?” Sherlock listened to the soft pat of John’s bare feet walk across the kitchen floor, the slight squeak of the cupboard door, a gentle clatter of plastic bottles and a rattle of tablets and the slosh of water into a glass, then the slight footsteps and faint sliding of denim against denim that heralded John’s return across the kitchen. He felt a tiny elevation in the temperature of the air surrounding him as John came close, stood beside him, set the glass of water and the tablet down on the table. Sherlock felt the warmth of John’s body, the smell of shampoo and garlic, aftershave and warm skin.  Overwhelmed, he could do nothing but rest his head in his hands and sigh softly. He heard the faintest whisper of movement and then, for a moment, felt the warm, gentle pressure of John’s hand upon his shoulder, felt John give a gentle squeeze and then it was gone. John walked back to the counter, began to chop spinach, the sharp knife pressing through the emerald leaves with a wet crunch. Sherlock’s skin tingled where John had touched him, nerves firing in confusion.

What was happening to him? What was John doing to him? And, more importantly, when would it stop, and how? He clung desperately to his shred of an idea, that the solution to his problem lay in data collection, that once his curiosity was assuaged, things would go back to normal. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling that the quantity and quality of data needed to slake this thirst might be far more profound than he had initially anticipated. He wanted to talk through the problem with John as his sounding board, as he had so many times before, but of course that was not possible. Still, he could at least approach the issue obliquely.

“Your feet.” His voice caught, embarrassingly, and he coughed to clear his throat.

“My feet?” John sounded puzzled. “What about them?”

“You’re not wearing any socks. Why not?”

“Oh. I stepped in… something. They got wet.”

“Probably water. From your shower.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

Sherlock’s felt his face grow warm again. Maybe he’d better just leave, but he seemed magnetized to the chair.

“Sherlock? You okay? You’re looking flushed.”

“I’m fine, John, it’s nothing.” But in three steps John had reached him, and he was unbuttoning his own cuff with his left hand ( _why?_ ) and he was sliding his shirt and sweater sleeves up his right wrist ( _why?_ ) and with his left hand he gently brushed Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead ( _why?_ ) and he was pressing the soft, warm skin of his inner wrist against Sherlock’s forehead ( _oh!_ ). Sherlock could not stop himself from a sudden exhale, almost a moan, really, and he should be embarrassed, should be humiliated, really, but his senses were saturated, the warm pressure of skin against skin, the faint pulsation of John’s radial artery, the scent of soap, and garlic, and something he could not identify… And then it was gone, leaving only empty cool air where the warmth had been. Sherlock glanced up, his eyes meeting John’s, deep blue, gaze inscrutable. Their eyes locked, for a beat, then a breath, longer than was normal, this couldn’t quite be normal, could it? Then John shook his head as if to clear it, and gave a little cough and a strange little half smile.

“You do feel a bit warm,” he said. “But I don’t think you have a fever.” He turned back to the kitchen counter, right cuff still rumpled and unbuttoned. Sherlock found himself hoping John wouldn’t notice. Somehow he liked seeing John’s appearance altered by their contact, as he himself felt altered, off-center, strange and unmoored. He felt as though he stood unsteadily on the brink of a great cliff, not knowing, fearing and yet yearning to see what lay below. Sherlock frowned, suddenly impatient with all this churning confusion, these imprecise and frankly sentimental flights of fancy. It was high time he resolved this situation, so he could return to his normal functionality unencumbered.

 _And if I don’t want to return to the way things were?_ The thought came unbidden, and he shoved it away, mercilessly. Tomorrow he would initiate his plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm learning that I was being quite optimistic when I thought I'd finish this in a few weeks. Started my new job, had the flu, etc. but I'm not going to leave these two hanging forever! Thanks for reading!  
> Up next, stay tuned for Sherlock taking a highly questionable look at John's computer viewing history...


	6. No Better Than the Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries an oblique route to data collection

Contrary to what clients and police officers might believe, Sherlock often did not have any idea where he was going with a particular investigation. But neither did he flail about randomly, as Scotland Yard so often appeared to do. He had a methodology, and he used it effectively. When he did not know the solution to a particular problem, he collected data points tangential to the question at hand, and as the data points converged he found the answers he sought. So it was that having failed to acquire the needed information through straight-forward means he decided that the time had come to step back and see what could be gleaned through more circumspect approaches. Besides, he was feeling entirely unsettled by his own responses to his investigations, and, if he were being truly honest with himself, felt that he might benefit from some increased distance.

So it was that Sherlock found himself one sunny morning after John had left for the clinic seated at the table in front of John’s laptop. He often used John’s computer of course, made it a matter of pride to crack John’s woefully inadequate passwords. Of course, if John truly minded he wouldn’t create such passwords as FuckOff$her!0cK, he would pick a random string of letters and numbers which would be much more difficult to deduce, so Sherlock didn’t feel at all guilty about it.  It was another example of the ways in which John tolerated his eccentricities, no, not even tolerated, adapted to. It had become a bit of a game between them, or at least it seemed that way to Sherlock. It was incredible, really, the way John somehow seemed to transform those traits of Sherlock’s which others found most objectionable into something inoffensive, even endearing.

The thought was both comforting and disturbing. How had John gotten so deeply inside him? And why would he want to? His own eccentricities had not been constructed to keep others at bay, at least he didn’t think so. They were just who he was, and he didn’t see fit to change to conform to some arbitrary, petty and dull social norms. But his abrasive personality served double purposes in that regard, keeping him alone, without vulnerability. By seeing him, not expecting him to be anything other than who he was, accepting and even apparently enjoying him, John had disarmed him, gotten through to him in a way no other had. But even John, tolerant and accepting as he was, had his limits. Must have. And Sherlock found he was not eager to see the limits of John’s tolerance exceeded. As much as he might wish to witness and catalogue every variant of John’s highly expressive face, he did not wish to see John gaze at him with the mingled mockery, fear, and disgust that he seemed to inspire in so many others. Which was why, of course, he needed to get this over with as soon as possible.

Sherlock sighed, and scowled at the computer in distaste. He was not especially looking forward to this part of his investigations. He had never found pornography appealing or sexually stimulating in the least. Observing poorly acted copulation under bad lighting and worse plot contrivances generally served to confirm his least flattering beliefs about humanity as a whole, and whilst he of course knew that John was not immune to many of humanity’s less appealing traits, he found he did not particularly care to see him in that same light. Oh well, it must be done.

John’s computer could normally be found in its current location on the table in the living room that functioned as a shared desk for the two of them, but sometimes, Sherlock had observed, he brought it up to his room. And while there were many potential reasons for doing so, Sherlock felt reasonably certain that viewing pornography was likely to be among them, if the average viewing habits among British males were any indication.

A few clicks and he had located John’s browser history. He chose a date at random from a few months ago, and began scrolling through. He smiled slightly to himself. John’s viewing history would seem quite bizarre to the average observer, but he could trace the path of their adventures together through the seemingly random collection of websites. There was an extensive listing of garden supply websites from the case involving the poisonous South American lilies, website and chat rooms focused on British soap operas, horse racing aficionados and searches on weather from throughout the country. His cases had been keeping John too occupied for other more personal pursuits, apparently. At least at that point in time. He felt a bit smug. Perhaps John was above such things after all.

But no, he came to a string of listings all from the same site, which from the name could only be one thing. He tried not to feel disappointed in John, and steeled himself for what he was about to see. The date, 22 March, struck him. That was when he himself had been in Devonshire, investigating the disappearance of an elderly socialite. John hadn’t been able to come along due to his responsibilities at the clinic. Interesting. Perhaps he felt ashamed of his activities? Or maybe he was bored without Sherlock and resorted to more pedestrian forms of amusement. Data to be gathered, conclusions to be drawn later. He clicked on the link.

It was about what he had expected, no better, thankfully no worse. A dark-haired man (late 20’s, cocaine habit, takes steroids, amateur boxer, waxed chest) was receiving fellatio from a young blond woman (college dropout, from a middle class background but not in contact with her family, why?, oh it must be the baby of course, multiple plastic surgeries- is that even worth noting, of course she has had, ugh stop it, this information was not essential). The man held the base of his erection in his left hand, cradled the back of the woman’s head with his right. He was standing in the middle of the room, an office set, it appeared (probably one of the tiresome secretary tropes). His thigh muscles contracted to keep his balance as he thrust into the woman’s lipstick-reddened mouth. Bad synthetic music played in the background as he murmured inanities such as “aw yeah” and “suck it like you mean it.” Like she means what? So very dull.       

Sherlock glanced at the browser history again. Apparently John hadn’t thought much more of this scene than he- he had only watched for under five minutes. Or else he had found it so compelling that he had been brought to climax that quickly. No, the next several websites were all pornographic as well. Sherlock clicked on the next- another man penetrating another woman, this time vaginally, at an improbable angle that was probably more for the benefit of the camera than because it was particularly pleasurable for anyone involved. Sherlock thought about the cameraman, the sound crew, the director. At least, he supposed these things had directors. How many people must have been watching this man and woman have intercourse? It all seemed exceedingly sordid and rather sad.

He felt that strange combination of superiority and emptiness that such things usually produced in him, gratified that he was above all that, while feeling impossibly distant from others of his kind who took pleasure in so many things that he did not. He shook himself, dove back in. John hadn’t stayed on the last one for more than a few minutes either. Next up, a woman on her hands and knees, being penetrated vaginally from the back by one man, while performing fellatio on another man who knelt before her. The bad music couldn’t quite mask the rhythmic squelching sound. He shuddered slightly, then moved on, as John had too, apparently. Why had John had such trouble maintaining interest? Or was that just how men did this? Like flipping channels on the telly when nothing “good” was on. Or maybe John, too, felt the awfulness of the whole endeavor.

He began to feel in a strange sort of solidarity with John, spending the exact same length of time on each clip as he had done. The next depicted a man thrusting roughly into a woman’s rectum (how can that feel good to her, she doesn’t even have a prostate). John had lingered here a bit longer but still only about five minutes. The next clip had held John’s attention, however. Sherlock saw he had viewed it for about ten minutes, and did not appear to have watched anything more after. _Ah_ , he thought, _this is the one that did it for him._ Sherlock clicked the link, and nearly fell out of his chair when he saw what it contained. 

There was no woman present in this scene at all. Instead two men (two _men!_ ) were locked in a reasonable facsimile of a passionate embrace, in what appeared to be a locker room. One was shirtless, the other wore a football jersey. Visible erections strained through the fabric of their shorts. The blond one roughly pushed the dark-haired man away from him.

“We can’t do this,” he rasped, breathing heavily. “Not now. Not here.” The dark haired man smiled lasciviously. He grasped his erection through the fabric, and moaned softly.

“I need you,” he breathed. “I need you _now_.”  The blond glanced quickly about before hurling himself back into the arms of the other, and stripping him of his jersey so that both men’s chests were bare. The blond pressed his groin against the other man’s and rutted against him, panting and moaning.

Sherlock paused the clip, leapt to his feet, heart racing, head spinning. This couldn’t be. This simply could not be. John, his John, John with the serial girlfriends, straight, unattainable John, had been watching gay porn. Had apparently _preferred_ gay porn. Sherlock felt as though a bomb had exploded. He simply had no idea what to make of this information, and he felt his grasp on the entire situation slipping. Unsure what else to do, he sat back down at the computer and pressed play.

The blond moaned, baring his throat as his lover (no, not his lover, of course, the other actor) held him close with a muscled arm wrapped around his lower back, taking his mouth with an aggressive kiss.

What was going through John’s mind as he watched this? Sherlock felt completely flummoxed. Could John have just been watching this out of curiosity? It seemed unlikely, as the previous several clips had been very much standard fare, heterosexual pornography, reflecting a desire for sexual stimulation rather than a purely intellectual exploration. No, despite his shock and disbelief, Sherlock had to conclude that John had settled on gay porn to secure his sexual release. Sherlock could feel his heart racing, hands trembling. He felt almost nauseous, with what? Shock? Adrenaline? Hope, even?

He frowned. Hope for what? Just because John had, on at least one occasion, most likely taken some pleasure in watching two male actors fuck each other, one could not conclude that he would ever be interested in engaging in any such activities himself. An even if he were, there was certainly no reason to believe he would be interested in engaging in such activities with Sherlock. Sherlock felt his stomach lurch. No, no, no! He should most certainly not be thinking of such things, John would never want that. _He_ would never want that, for that matter. He was married to his work, he had no time, no space for such a completely… completely terrifying… no, not terrifying of course not terrifying, he wasn’t afraid of sex. Surely he had meant that he had no time for such a completely _unnecessary_ endeavor.  Such lies the path to madness, or at the very least to the loss of the most important relationship in his life, which would essentially be the same thing. He ruthlessly shoved the thought aside. _Return to your investigations, detective_ , he commanded himself.

The next thing to know, of course, was whether this was an isolated incident. He scrolled through the browser history, past rugby matches and news articles, Croatian pet stores and humorous animal videos, before settling on the next round of pornographic clips. A similar pattern emerged. Several short views of heterosexual porn of standard quality (or lack thereof) and theme, followed by a longer, lingering viewing of a gay clip, this one a standard bedroom scene. There was a single video a week later of a woman performing fellatio, which had been viewed for several minutes without being followed by anything else (perhaps that was enough for him, or perhaps he was interrupted). The next session returned to the prior pattern, however. The most recent clip, from about a week ago, deviated from the pattern, in that the only thing he had watched was gay.

Having discerned the pattern, Sherlock turned to the specifics, settling in to watch the final clip in its entirety. The actors (if they could actually be called that) again were a blonde and a brunette. Sherlock supposed that would be a common theme, in order to provide contrast between the two men. Both were, of course, physically fit, both in their mid-twenties, both with larger than average endowments in the genital region. This scene appeared to be lower-budget than some of the previous clips he’d observed, amateur even, but what it lacked it slickness it improved upon in authenticity. Both men appeared to be genuinely aroused and enthusiastic, rather than turning in a rote performance. There was no feeble attempt at plot, just a video of two men having sex.

They started out in pants only, one wearing standard issue white y-fronts, the other in black briefs. As they kissed heatedly, they rutted against each other, grinding their pelvises against each other through the fabric of their pants. The blond was most likely a college student, Sherlock thought, while the trapezius muscles on the brunette suggested- Sherlock cut off his line of thought. This was surely not what John would have been thinking when he watched this, and the whole purpose of this endeavor was to gather data on John, not on the amateur porn actors of Britain. What _would_ John have been thinking? Would he simply have been watching, taking pleasure in two young, fit bodies as they took pleasure in each other? Or… would he have imagined himself as part of the scene?

Sherlock felt startled by this thought. Perhaps that was what people did when they watched this sort of thing, perhaps that was why they didn’t mind how pathetically poor the quality was. Perhaps it was merely a tool to trigger the imagination. He was intrigued. The men were both nude now, the blonde had dropped to his knees before the brunette, and was gazing up at him as he took the head of the brunette’s cock into his mouth. Which one would John have been imagining himself to be? Probably the receiver of the blow job, Sherlock imagined. John might be watching gay porn, but surely there was a large distance between that and imagining a cock in his mouth. Very well, he would do the same.

Of course, John probably had not been here in the living room as he watched gay porn on his laptop. No, of course he would have been in his room, door closed. Sherlock paused the video, scooped up the computer and darted up the stairs to John’s room. After all, he must be authentic. It was this attention to detail that provided him with so much of the information he utilized. John had a wooden chair in his room, but Sherlock suspected that this particular activity would have taken place in bed. He pulled the chair to the bedside and placed the computer on it, sitting on the neatly made single bed. Ever the soldier, Sherlock thought fondly. He tugged open the top drawer of the nightstand, was unsurprised to find lubricant there, grabbed the tube, snapped open the top. Pressed play.

Sherlock took a deep breath and imagined John right here, in this very position, in front of this very computer, filled with arousal, guilt, and anticipation. Was he already erect, cock straining against the flies of his trousers? Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath as lust flooded through his body in a hot wave. He could feel his pulse pounding, could feel himself filling and stiffening. He drew a shaking breath, sure he was on to something. He imagined John, brow furrowed, perhaps, gaze intent, focused on the engorged cock sliding through spit-slicked lips on the screen before him. He must have been stroking himself by now, Sherlock thought. He himself could barely stand to have his cock untouched another moment. Did John moan? Oh god, he must have moaned, because Sherlock himself was moaning.  

Sherlock imagined John urgently unbuttoning his trousers, roughly tugging them open, stroking himself through the fabric of his pants, as Sherlock did the same for himself. On the screen, the brunette moaned, cursed, as he fucked the blonde’s reddened mouth. Sherlock imagined John moaning, cursing, as he thrust into Sherlock’s mouth. Oh. _Oh._ Sherlock closed his eyes, placed two fingers to his lips, imagining. His mind was split strangely into three erotic scenes, as visions of John jerking himself merged with the image of the men on the screen, which in turn fed Sherlock’s fantasy of John’s cock in his mouth.

He sucked the first two fingers of his left hand, while his right, slicked with lubricant, squeezed and stroked and pumped his cock. He glanced down at his aching member, the head swollen and dark with arousal, sliding through his fist, imagined John doing the same, and gasped aloud with lust. The brunette on the screen now had his hands threaded through the other man’s hair and was just… unngh, just _using_ him, just thrusting into his mouth, fucking him. Oh god, imagine John so overcome with lust, his essential kindness and consideration overwhelmed by sheer need to take, to release. Sherlock was panting, groaning. The pressure of his hand on his cock felt so good and the images in his mind so powerful, fueled by the men onscreen. He thrust faster, sucked harder, imagined John’s hands in his hair, John fucking taking him, all control lost. The brunette onscreen cried out, pulled his cock from the blonde’s mouth to release in spurts on his face.  Sherlock imagine John thrusting once more, before giving a cry and pulsing hot essence down his throat. With a shout, Sherlock felt himself come to climax, semen shooting from his cock as the pulsations of his orgasm vibrated through his very core.  

He surfaced back to himself gradually. His breathing ragged, hands trembling visibly. Sound returned to him, the crude audio now jarring and intrusive. He went to pull the computer closed, but saw that the force of his release had spattered the screen. His stomach clenched and bile rose in his throat, face flushed with humiliation. He grabbed a tissue from the box at John’s bedside, and wiped his spunk from the screen, then closed it harshly. He stood, slightly dizzy, straightened his clothes, the truth of what just happened pushing its way into his mind no matter how hard he tried to avoid it: he, Sherlock Holmes, had jerked off to pornography. He was no better than every slobbering fool at the pub, slaves to their biology, highest goal for any evening being to rut like a base animal. Confused, disgusted, and oddly in desperate need of a glass of water and a nap, he stumbled down the stairs.

Only to see Mrs. Hudson, standing in the kitchen, with a tea kettle in her hand, which she nearly dropped with the strength of the double-take she performed upon seeing Sherlock enter the room.

“Sherlock?!?” she squeaked, blushing, before regaining her usual twittering version of composure. “I’m sorry, dear, I thought for sure it was John up there.” She glanced at John’s computer in his hands, quirked an eyebrow, and quickly turned away. “Well, anyway, since you’re here, you may as well have a cuppa.”

Sherlock had no words. He retreated to the feeble sanctuary of his bedroom, leaving Mrs. Hudson to her thoughts, the content of which Sherlock tried very hard not to consider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so long in (ahem) coming! Life has been crazy, but I will not leave you (or John and Sherlock) hanging forever! It has certainly gotten bigger than my original plan of three chapters, so I can't quite say how many more there will be, but I have the end in sight. Happy reading!


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